


Yet to be Named

by Arlissa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also EPIC!BROMANCE, And violence, Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach, There will be swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlissa/pseuds/Arlissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Sloane has lost his memory in a big way - but luckily a stranger by the name of Sherlock Holmes is more than willing to take on his case and help him discover just what it is he's forgetting. But why is Sherlock so willing to help? And what was so terrible that Peter has forgotten everything but his name? A Sherlock BBC fic - with lots of mystery, feels, and flashbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once on a Cold Night

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME! This fic started as a massive brain dump - I wanted to construct a case that could realistically be seen on the show itself, but for reasons that will become clear at the end of Chapter 2, would be unfilmable. I've tried to keep this as in character as possible - I've worked hard to make sure that my Sherlock, John, Molly and the rest of the gang are everything you've come to know and love.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nuh-thing. The characters belong to Mofftiss, the BBC, and ACD himself. Only Peter Sloane is mine, and only in a very small way *you'll see*
> 
> Enjoy :)

Peter Sloane blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. The more awake he became the more he had to try to halt the feeling of panic that was coming over him - where _was_ he? Racking his brain he remembered taking a fall a week ago - slipped on a patch of black ice like the prat he was - and his head still hurt whenever he tried to access his long-term memory. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the previous night slowly came back to him.

***

He had been out doing some shopping when his patchy memory had failed him in a big way. He was unable to remember how to get home. How ridiculous a thought - he was only 39, he couldn't be getting dementia already. But a physical injury plus what must have been a stressful week at work would be enough to throw any man off his game.

Peter was lucky though. He was a normal looking bloke, and didn't give off any severe crazy man vibes, and a good Samaritan came to his aid. The gentleman introduced himself, funny sort of name "Sherlock Holmes," and remarked that Peter was  _clearly a man suffering from chronic memory loss as a result of a recent head trauma, probably a fall in this weather, and you’re at a loss as to where you are going, and would you like some assistance remembering over a spot of tea, my flat's only just around the corner._

OK. So a good Samaritan with a ridiculously good guessing ability.

Peter remembered the instinctual sense of comfort at the idea of a cup of tea. He was so cold - between the weather and the nauseating dread in being lost - tea would be the perfect remedy. Plus Mr. Holmes, while clearly a bit eccentric, radiated a sense of trust. So Peter followed him to 221B Baker Street and shared a cup of Earl Grey with the man in his flat.

"Blimey you've got a lot of crap in here for one bloke."

The taller man grimaced, "I believe the social convention is to not refer to the belongings of a veritable stranger as 'crap' so as not to be seen as rude."

"Whoops." Peter flushed slightly, "Lost my memory and my manners apparently. If it helps Mr. Holmes, I apologise. I wasn't meaning to comment on the quality of what's here. More the sheer amount and wide array. If you follow."

"I do follow Mr. Sloane, thank you for the apology. And you are right, there is quite an eclectic collection of crap in this flat. It's not all mine though."

"Significant other hiding somewhere in the depths?"

Holmes' bright eyes glanced at his own for a second as though trying to read his mind, then flicked away as he shook his head. "Nothing of the sort. Some of it belongs to my flatmate."

"I see. Well that certainly explains the widely varying titles lining your walls." Peter nodded to the bookshelf, "I thought the variety was a bit much for one man - that makes much more sense. This is a nice size flat for two; in this market I'd say that's a job well done Mr. Holmes. Is your flatmate due back soon?"

Holmes hesitated for another fraction of a second. Peter would never have noticed, had he not been watching him pace back and forth. The pause forced the tall man to lean ever so slightly to the left before continuing his war on the carpet. He replied dryly. "He's away for the week visiting family in the country."

Peter smiled. "Lovely. Can't remember the last time I visited my own. Far too busy to get away I expect." Then he frowned. Too busy doing what exactly? First his address, now his job, even his family seemed fuzzy to him.

"Mr. Sloane?"

"Hmm? Oh sorry did I disappear there for a mo'? This memory fading in and out is starting to unnerve me I'd wager." Peter ran his hands through his short blonde hair and sighed. "I'm sorry to dump this all on you Mr. Holmes. You've been kind enough to help me tonight, but I'm still – well, still sort of…erm...”

Peter halted his words. He wasn’t sure what to say anymore. If he were to be honest with himself for just one second he would admit that he was properly scared. It was already 10.30 at night and here he was having tea with a mildly inhospitable patron. He still couldn’t think of where on Earth he lived and going to sleep in the park on a balmy 7° night did not sound at all appealing or very legal. But how could he possibly ask-

“Mr. Sloane if I might interrupt that chain of thought; your inner dialogue seems to be running in an awful number of circles and I am beginning to feel dizzy watching you.”

Peter gaped at the man. “ _You_ feel dizzy? Blimey Mr. Holmes-“

“It’s Sherlock, please.”

Peter waved his hand dismissively, “All right, _Sherlock_. My point is I don’t think it right for you to complain about feeling dizzy when I can’t even remember by own bloody address!” His voice cracked at the end of his shout – worry and fear physically manifesting itself in his vocal chords. He was sure his dark eyes were beginning to swim in frustration.

“Mr… may I call you Peter?”

Peter nodded, “Of course.”

“Right.” Sherlock heaved a sigh, “Peter, first of all you’re tired. It’s late and you’ve had a bit of a traumatic evening. I wouldn’t expect you to be able to keep up a reasonable chain of thought under these circumstances. You wouldn’t be babbling like you were if you had figured out where you lived – you also just admitted that to be true in your outburst. If I can, I’d like to try a quick line of questioning to help draw out your memory. I’ll admit that it may not work – I’m not the most skilled at deciphering human emotion. What I am pretty confident of though, is that my attempt to help will go better if you no longer have to worry about sleeping rough this evening. So allow me to allay that fear now. You are more than welcome to stay here until you feel slightly less vulnerable.”

“Mr. Holmes! I couldn’t possibly impose any more than-“

“It’s Sherlock, remember? And please don’t interrupt me in the middle of a speech I find it quite rude.” The detective waved his hand irritably. “Besides it’s no imposition. What sort of humanitarian would I be if I just sent you out into the cold night with no notion of which direction you should walk in? We have a couch, you can see it there. Besides I’ve told you already that my flatmate is away for the week. So you should have realised that his bedroom is available for your use. And even if he was home he’d never let you leave. He’s much more-“

Sherlock stopped and cleared his throat. He had clenched his left hand into a fist and begun rubbing his forefinger and thumb together repeatedly (and quite unconsciously in Peter’s opinion) as he went on.

“He’s much more empathetic than I – much kinder – and would not only have you stay for as long as you liked, but would go out canvassing the neighborhood tonight to find out where you belong. So please, let’s skip all the social conventions of going back and forth on this until you humbly accept. You will be staying here tonight.” Sherlock took a deep breath at the end of his diatribe. His eyes, before meeting those of his guest, glanced at his nervous fist. He quickly pulled it behind his back and cocked an eyebrow in Peter’s direction, as if daring him to refuse again.

Peter stared at the impossible man standing before him. He’d only been in Sherlock’s company for a few hours but was able to come to a few important conclusions about the man. He was brilliant, easily irritated, stubborn, and a bit infuriating. He also however was genuine. Peter couldn’t imagine the man offering to do anything he didn’t want to. As he had offered Peter a place to stay, he took the offer at face value. He also seemed convinced that this flatmate of his would want him to remain in their home as well.

Satisfied, Peter grinned mischievously up at the taller man. “When you put it like that, Sherlock, how can a girl refuse? I can’t imagine anyone turning down such an impassioned plea to remain in the abode of so modelesque a man.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before cracking a smile. “Not impassioned – just logical, Peter. I can also tell you that your attempt to force an uncomfortable reaction from me never had a chance of succeeding.”

Peter laughed, “Found me out, did you?”

“My flatmate has a similar sense of humour and I’ve come to recognise it in others thanks to the years of example he has bestowed upon me.”

“Good man your flatmate. I’m now sorry to have missed him. I’m sure we’d have gotten along famously.”

The smile on Sherlock’s face vanished. “Yes. I’m sure you would. Now,” Sherlock threw himself into the leather armchair across from Peter and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Let’s try to access different parts of your long-term memory. It may help uncover the area where you usually store your address.”

Peter tugged unconsciously at the sleeves of his jumper; he was beginning to feel a bit warm. “All right. I’m game.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep going - try at least one more chapter - I promise to make it worth your while :) *insert puppy-dog eyes here*
> 
> And if you find any errors - Brit-Spreak, typos, grammarfails, anything at all - feel free to give me a scolding.


	2. Beginning to Dig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! Sherlock begins to delve into Peter's missing memory. 
> 
> *Warning* I have no medical knowledge regarding head trauma and pulled most of what I said in this chapter out of my be-hind. But it sounds good, so I'm going to stick with it.

Sherlock grinned like the Chesire Cat at Peter's acquiesence to play his game. “Excellent. Now first: can you recall what you did last night?”

Peter smirked. “Didn’t make it home last night, did I? But that…er… had nothing to do with my memory lapses. See, I went down the pub and well, got chatting with a female patron. I… accompanied… her –“

“Yes you went to hers and had sex with her. Don’t feel embarrassed Peter. You’re an adult, as I’m sure she was, and you’re welcome to do whatever you like with whomever you choose.”

“Rumbled me again! How do you do that?”

“Consulting detective, remember? The- “

“Only one in the world.” Peter finished the phrase along with his interrogator. “Yes of course.”

Sherlock frowned slightly and stared hard at the man across from him. “How’d you know I was going to say that?”

Peter shrugged. “Dunno. Must’ve said it to me earlier when you first told me what you did for a living.”

The consulting detective’s eyes bored into the other man’s for a few seconds more; Peter shifted uncomfortably as he felt rather as if he were under a microscope.

“Yes. I must have. Back to the task then.” Sherlock brought his hands together with a loud clap.  “How long ago was it that you slipped and injured your head?” 

“Bout a week?”

“You don’t seem sure.”

“Well you know, fuzzy memory and all that, the details are a bit vague. I say a week because I don’t require constant pain killers, there is no longer any bump I can feel, I’ve been able to sleep less than 8 hours without any repercussions, and my equilibrium is at a hundred percent.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Peter, are you a doctor?”

Peter shook his head. “No I… well I think… my profession’s gone a bit hazy on me as well. But I think maybe I’m a bookseller? That seems right. I have vague images of cataloging lots of books, and I was paying quite a close amount of attention to your shelves when I came in… yes. I do believe I’m a bookseller.” Peter sighed contentedly. “Well that’s one relief. Why’d you guess doctor?”

“The way you spoke, you seemed very knowledgeable about the development of head trauma.”

“Must be all those medical dramas on the telly.”

“Oh yes I’m quite fond of them myself. Tell me, which is your favourite?”

“My favourite? The one… let me see. ITV show, no BBC 2? I think it’s… maybe that American import?” He shook his head and placed a hand over his face. “I must say, it’s quite disconcerting to not even remember which programmes you prefer. God help me; what if I accidentally thought I liked watching _The Only Way is Essex_?” He laughed darkly. “That’d be the end of the blooming world. I will say, Sherlock, that I wouldn’t have taken you for a telly man.”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally.

“Can you remember back a week ago to the circumstances surrounding your injury?”

“Circumstances?” Peter frowned. “What’s to know? I fell and whacked my head on the concrete. Seems a dead line of questioning to me.”

“On the contrary, nothing is immaterial in cases that involve such severe lapses. By returning to the scene of the crime, as it were, any recollection of that incident could be the key to unlocking the rest of your memory.”

Peter shrugged. “Makes sense I s’pose.”

“Can you remember where you were?”

“Well… I was escorted by a passerby to a surgery in Belgravia. They took a peek at me there.”

“So logic follows that you were in that area when you fell.”

“It would that, yeah.”

Sherlock leaned forward and stared intently at Peter. “Now why would you be in Belgravia? We could guess that perhaps you live around there and were on your way home when you fell. However, I find that to be unlikely assumption. Your subconscious directed you to shop at a market just around the corner from here. Logic dictates then that said market is where you usually pick up your sundries and therefore that means you live in this part of London. So I must ask you to try and recall: why were you there?”

Peter frowned. He sat for a minute and wracked his fuzzy brain. He could only see flashes in his mind in regards to that night and they were blurry at best – as if someone had smeared petroleum jelly over a camera lens before taking a picture. He closed his eyes and tried to focus harder all the while feeling the detective’s gaze upon him.

“I was chasing…” He squinched his eyes tighter. “Or fleeing?” He dumped his head in his hands, still searching for more words, when his auditory memory kicked in. He jumped as if it was happening again. “A gunshot. I heard a gunshot. And I ran towards it… then away again?” His head was starting to throb with the effort he was putting forth. He yelled aloud in frustration. “This doesn’t make any SENSE! A gunshot that I’m running towards before running away? What sort of weird MI-6 movie am I in? I’m not a spy for crying out loud! I’m certainly not brave enough to go towards the sound of gunfire.”

“Peter, you are very brave.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Forgive my saying so Sherlock, but you don’t know me from fucking Adam. I know what I am even if I don’t know who I am. I’m sure all I heard was a car backfire and whilst fleeing in terror I slipped and fell. And if those measurements of my constitution don’t suit your assessments of me then I’m sorry to be such a bloody disappointment.” Peter ended his rant in a snarl taking in shuddering gasps of air.

Sherlock stood. His full height made Peter feel as though he measured in at all of five foot nothing, especially after the tirade he had just unleashed.

“Sherlock, I-“

“No Peter. I apologise. I put too much stress on you with my questions after what has certainly been a taxing day. Forgive me. I’m sure that with a little rest you’ll feel better. Let me show you to the room you’ll be using. The sheets are clean, you have my assurance.”

Peter breathed a sigh and smiled sheepishly. “Sherlock, thank you. I agree – a night’s rest will definitely do wonders. As long as you’re sure I’m-“

“We agreed not to do the whole polite back and forth thing, remember?”

Peter laughed. “Indeed I do. You are a forceful bloke. I can’t imagine you ever don’t get your way.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. “Well deduced Peter. If you’ll follow me,” and he led him up the stairs to his room.

***

And so, Peter, staring at the ceiling, remembered the night before. He sighed. His memory was still shite, but at least he felt fairly rested. Small blessings he supposed. He could hear the slow tones of a violin downstairs- his strange host was awake then.

Peter decided he’d reminisced in another man’s bed for long enough. He made to swing his legs to the floor, but found he was impeded; the sheets were tangled and damp with his sweat. The shirt he had borrowed off Sherlock’s missing flatmate was also strung around him oddly. He reached a hand up to scrub some of the tired off his face and was startled when it came away wet.

Tears? That must have been a hell of a nightmare.

Peter disengaged himself from the oppressive bedding and padded down the stairs.

Sherlock was facing the window, his reflection showing that he played with his eyes closed. Peter noted how lonely it sounded, the piece he was playing. The detective was quite the talented musician. Peter stood quietly, letting the low notes pour over him. He’d only been listening for a minute or two when the music halted.

Peter raised his hand in greeting. “Morning, Sherlock. Hope I didn’t disturb your playing just now.”

Sherlock turned. “Not at all. I just wanted to tell you that you should feel free to toast and tea in the kitchen – pay no mind to the beaker on fire it’s just a quick experiment, I'm getting in as many as possible while my flatmate's out of town. I’ve also placed a towel and clean shirt in the bathroom in case you’d like a shower which I suspect you do considering the amount you probably sweat last night. I could hear you tossing about and moaning for quite a while. Bad dream was it?”

Peter stared at his feet. “I'm sure it was. Can’t remember having it though. I wasn’t lying about being a coward last night, Sherlock. What sort of man over the age of 6 cries due to a nightmare?”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side as if he didn’t quite hear him right. “Cries? You cried in your sleep?”

“Must’ve done. Woke up and my eyes were wet. So it’s either tears or it rained on my face. I think I will have that shower now, thanks.” And he turned and left the room, all the while feeling Sherlock’s eyes trailing after him.

The shower was a revelation. It relaxed muscles that he didn’t realize he’d been tensing. His shoulder was particularly sore, must’ve slept on it funny. When he was finished he changed into the shirt Sherlock had provided him and his jeans from the night before. Fully dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror, nodding once as if to affirm that the reflection was indeed his own, and headed back to the sitting room.

The detective was no longer at the window. Instead he was lying stretched out on his sofa, hands folded together as if in prayer. “Feel better, Peter?”

“Much thanks. Listen, Sherlock, I’ve still got holes in my head and if it’s all right by you I’d- “

“The back and forth Peter, I don’t like doing it. I told you I wouldn’t toss you into the street and I meant it. At least unless you really irritate me. Don’t make me a liar.”

Peter inhaled, “Right. Sorry about that. Hard to shake the ingrained politeness I guess. I’m going to head out for a walk, clear my head a bit.” 

“Poor choice of words.”

Peter laughed heartily. “Well done! Then I’ll be trying to fill it instead. If you’re right that I live in the area, then maybe I’ll come across a building or summat to jog my memory back into shape. I’ll be back in a couple of hours or so.”

“Good luck, Peter. If I’m out when you return, I’ll leave a key to the flat with my landlady.”

“Right, thanks again Sherlock.” Peter grabbed his coat and bounded down the stairs.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, listening to Peter’s steps. He heard him hesitate at the front door, as if steadying himself for his journey back out into the alien like world. Then the door opened and closed, and he could hear Peter’s movements no more. At this, Sherlock sprang up from his position. He looked once around the room, trying to place where he had put his phone last evening, before spotting it on the mantelpiece next to his trusty skull.

He grabbed it, typed out a quick mass text, and hit send. He then scrolled through his contacts and called the one person he really didn’t have the patience to deal with that morning.

“Anthea received your text that he left the flat, thank you. I assume you sent it to Lestrade and the others as well?”

“Of course, seeing as that was the plan we all agreed on.”

“Well?”

“He hardly remembers anything of the incident, and nothing about himself.”

“I really had thought being in the flat would’ve helped.”

“I did as well.” Sherlock cleared his throat and noticed a tightness indicating that he was becoming upset. “Mycroft… John still has no idea who he is.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! So whether it was obvious or made no sense you have reached the "unfilmable" twist in my story. Hopefully you enjoyed it - and if not I'm sorry *hangs head in shame*
> 
> Next few parts will be flashbacks to Sherlock's time away from John after the fall. It features Lestrade, Injured!John and my BAMF!Molly because I love her so. And if you do as well then I urge you to stick around for the next bits.
> 
> Also I'll have my own take at the reunion between these two soul mates - something I've been itching to try my hand at for a long time.


	3. A Clearer Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pauses to reflect on his time away from John after the Fall.
> 
> Beginning of the flashbacks! We'll be living in the past for a couple chapters so enjoy! (Warning: potential feels start now.)

Sherlock snapped the phone closed on his brother before he had to suffer through his response; there no longer was any need to continue the conversation. The text he sent would ensure that John (or Peter as he was currently calling himself) would have eyes watching him no matter where he went - the group would keep him safe. Sherlock also - though he was loathe to admit it - had become quite sentimental where John Watson was concerned, and admitting to his brother that John's identity was still lost had taken quite the emotional toll on the alleged sociopath.

Sherlock had to conciously stop himself from throwing his phone against the wall in frustration. He stared at the iPhone as if it had done something wrong, "You're lucky I may have need of you later."

He was back to talking to inanimate objects: Wonderful.

Sherlock turned slowly on the spot, looking at random points on the walls of 221B hoping for some sort of inspiration to strike him. Usually, when on a case like this, his mind was so occupied that his body was content to keep still, transferring all its kinetic energy to help data processing.

Not this time though.

Not when it had to do with John.

His flatmate. His blogger. His doctor.

His best friend.

"AUGH! Sherlock shouted - not the most eloquent of exclamations, but it really was the only one suited for the occasion. He knew he was far too sentimental when it came to John.

And for Sherlock, the worst thing about this whole debacle was that it was only recently that things had gotten back to normal between them.

***

After his fall, Sherlock had spent 9 months getting rid of Moriarty's most loyal of operatives. And it hadn't proved easy. Two weeks into being dead he had realized that he would need more help than just poor Molly Hooper.

Not that she hadn't been spectacular, but it was after only that first fortnight that Sherlock knew he was asking too much of her.

She had lent him her spare bedroom to have as a base in London, had given him a modest stipend to spend on materials he needed daily, had even helped him dye his hair for a disguise.

The problem was the hopsital didn't pay her nearly enough to support a man who would be needing weekly airline tickets to Dubai, or costly science instruments, or cash payoffs to former KGB operatives. He also didn't want to involve her in any potential paper trail.

No. It was only two weeks in that he had needed to reveal himself to his older brother. (Here, Sherlock smiled slightly at the memory.)

While both Holmes boys maintained that caring was not an advantage he had been pleased at Mycroft's reaction to the ghost standing in his private salon at the Diogenes. Although if he was being honest with himself, a fair share of that pleasure came from the confirmation that he had indeed fooled his Big Brother sibling into believing in his demise. They did so love to outsmart one another.

Mycroft had stared at him for a full minute. Sherlock didn't speak a word as he watched his brother's eyes widen and dart up and down his frame, trying desperately to assure himself he was not hallucinating.

Mycroft had slowly walked toward his brother and grasped Sherlock's forearm tightly. He held on, squeezed it slightly confirming its corporeality, looked directly into his younger brother's eyes, and said "How can I help?"

It had easily been the most overt display of love either had ever expressed for the other.

And in that moment Sherlock's mission had begun in earnest. 9 months of spying and hiding - of aliases and accents - of keeping as far away from his London life as possible. He and Mycroft rarely communicated directly, both deeming it far too dangerous. Molly knew better than to ever call or text Sherlock. She merely took his cryptic postcards from around the world as proof that he still lived and worked.

Except once.

There was one time about 3 months after the roof that both Mycroft and Molly had to abandon protocol and ring Sherlock furiously. It was after John had gotten himself hospitalized. 

***

They were aware that John had been fighting a depression, and was slowly coming out of it. His daily routines had become much healthier - he took shifts at the surgery, watched telly, and went out for pints with his mates.

But Molly, keen-eyed ever faithful Molly, had spotted something Mycroft's surveillance could not. John was experiencing a state of heightened paranoia. More than once he had come into the morgue at Bart's to visit her, cup of coffee in hand and chat topic at the ready, but with a nervous haunted look in his eye.

When Molly mentioned this to Mycroft he concluded that John's sniper, one Sebastian Moran, was angry, antsy, and looking to enact a small amount of revenge on the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. As a known crack shot, they realized that he was biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make the biggest impact, and Captain John H Watson formerly of the fifth North Umberland fusiliers had felt the menacing shadow that was hunting him.

So one night, when John was feeling particularly confident (also known as reckless,) he had hunted back.

By the time Mycroft's men (along with Lestrade and a handful of Yarders) had gotten to the scene Moran was already unconcious. John had knocked him out with a viscious blow to the temple, with the Colonel's own piece by the look of it. But in the struggle the gun had discharged catching John in the stomach. Gut wounds were painful and almost always fatal - so the fact that when back up had arrived 2 minutes later, and John had not only taken out his adversary but was still conscious was nothing short of miraculous. In fact Lestrade's boys had stared open mouthed for a good 10 seconds as their DI knelt next to John, gripping his hand and telling him to hang on, before they remembered to call for an ambulance. 

Their idiocy could've cost John his life, as Lestrade was very quick to point out to his Sergeants, and while John had made it through the ordeal, the delay coupled with the bullet in his belly hadn't done him any favours.  

John had lost consciousness while on route to the hospital and his heart stopped for 90 terrifying seconds. An hour of surgery later he was out of the woods, but it would be another 12 before he woke up. When he did Lestrade was there smiling grimly at him, "Mate, for a medical man, you sure are thick." John wheezed a laugh, "Yeah well I learned from the best."

Both men took a moment to let that sink in, silently remembering the fallen detective they had both been so fond of. Before long John spoke again, "Did you get him? The bloke tailing me?"

"Oh yeah. Mycroft's men had him away before you were even in the ambulance. It's safe to say he won't be seen in daylight any time soon."

"Well he is the British Government. Speaking of which..." John nodded to the window across from him where he could see Anthea typing furiously on her Blackberry. She stole a quick glance in his direction and smiled just briefly at him, before returning to her work.

Leastrade followed John's gaze, "She followed the ambulance in one of the black cars. She's been here typing on that thing since you went into surgery. Sending Mycroft status updates every minute from the looks of it."

John went quiet for a minute. "Why would he bother with me? I said some horrible things to him after... well you know. And I'm still angry with him, but... he lost someone as well. I haven't given him the time of day in three damn months and he was still willing..." John literrally didn't know what to say.

Lestrade broke the silence. "I'm sure part of it is his way of apologizing, asuaging his guilt and all that. Another part of it is I think this Moran character is someone his lot have been looking for, in connection with Moriarty- "

John interrupted here, "Moriarty? But he's dead."

"Doesn't mean he didn't have any posthumous orders or rogue people still around. I figure Moran's been looking for an opening to you for a while. But John, the real reason I think he's still looking after you? He cares, mate. In his strange detached Holmesian way he cares about you. You were his brother's best mate. You helped both of them out on cases. You didn't ever act afraid or intimidated of him and you stood up to him when you thought he had done his brother wrong. There are probably two people on the planet who ever stood up for Sherlock Holmes so of course they'd look out for one another."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, "Sorry mate. I'm getting a bit tired - it makes me more emotional. How very un-British of me."

John smiled weakly,"Not a problem - thanks for checking in on me. Go on home and get some rest, yeah?"

Lestrade turned to leave but hesitated slightly. "You know... I was there. I was holding your hand as you bled out on the pavement. I sat in that ambulance and watched as the EMTs tried to restart your heart. John, I know we got in a rut, but you're my friend, and you need to know. You matter. You always will. I know it can hurt; I hate myself on a daily basis for my part in what happened to him, but you have to take care of yourself. Promise me, yeah? No more running off and taking reckless bullets in the stomach. Who will I go out for pints with if you're always in a damn hospital gown? You'd look a riot down the pub in that thing."

And with that he walked out the door.

John was stunned. 

***


	4. Speed Dialing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Mycroft rush to keep Sherlock from blowing his cover - can they stop him before he goes to John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: BAMF!Molly ahead.

What had prompted Molly and Mycroft to embark on a 10 hour speed dial exercise with Sherlock was thanks to a mouthy hired hand. 

The two had agreed to not tell Sherlock any news about John until they knew he was completely safe and wouldn't need any additional looking after. However, one of the guns hired to watch out for Sherlock had caught wind of the situation (secret service men really did gossip too much). He had been on John's tail once or twice and had admired him from afar, so when he heard a rumour that the Doctor had taken out a sniper but gotten himself shot he had called a buddy of his to discuss the situation. 

Sherlock had overheard only a fraction of the phone call, but it was enough to spur the detective into action. Coat no doubt flying like a cape behind him, he took off towards the airport. He also had put himself on radio silence. By the time his escorts had realized what had happened and informed Mycroft, Sherlock was already in the air, heading west to Mother England.

Sherlock finally was forced to turn his phone back on when he landed at Heathrow. He remembered being impressed that the device hadn't spontaneously combusted due to the sheer amount of notifications that came in on it. He was ill at the thought of speaking to his brother - how could he have left John in danger? But felt a pang of guilt when Molly rang him again and answered his phone.

"By answering your call I am wiping clean my debt to you, Molly."

"Sherlock, I know you're in a taxi on the way to the hospital. Stop this right now; get the cabbie to turn around and take you straight to my house. I don't care how different you look as a blonde, you're going to blow your cover."

"I'm ginger now. And John-"

"IS FINE! That's why we've been calling you Sherlock. We were waiting to get word on his condition."

"I had to find out through eavesdropping, Molly. How could you two keep something so important like this-"

"Sherlock, stop. Just think, deduce it. The reason we didn't tell you right away is because we knew this is how you'd respond. By flying back to London and cocking up the whole thing!"

Sherlock eyebrows flew up. Molly didn't swear very often, so with her choice of words he knew she was either terrified or furious. Or maybe a little of both.

"Molly I-"

"Do you really think, Sherlock, that _if_ John was dying. That if he was in some sort of terrible coma and was not long for this world that we wouldn't have told you? That we wouldn't have gotten you on the god damned Concord and flown you here so that you could be with him before the end? Really, do you think we are oblivious to how important you are to one another? For a genius you are remarkably thick. Other than a brief moment in the ambulance, John's life has never been in serious danger."

"How brief?"

Molly hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she understood she couldn't lie to him. "His heart stopped for 90 seconds."

Sherlock closed his eyes as a wave of nausea came barreling towards him. 

"Sherlock?"

"A moment please." He breathed in and out as he forced his stomach to settle. As he forced the images of a cold and grey John Watson, lying in an ambulance, EMTs working frantically around him. "And... They're sure he's alright now?"

"Fit as a fiddle. You know John, made of stronger stuff and all that. He took a while to recoup but that's because his body was so worn out in general. I doubt he'd slept or ate properly in weeks and a nice long gunshot recovery was apparently what his system needed. According to Mycroft's blackberry girl there he was lucid and joking with Greg an hour ago."

"Lestrade? John's talking to him again?"

"He's definitely still a little wary, but I think John realises that no one aside from himself and your brother feels as awful as Greg about what happened to you. You know that Lestrade didn't believe you were a fake. If he hadn't done as his superiour told him and arrested you he would've been fired on the spot and then you would have had _no one_ on the inside of Scotland Yard."

"I know. I'm just surprised John worked it out."

"John's not an idiot," Molly snapped, "But at the moment you are. He's awake. He's recovering. He apparently was flirting with a nurse a moment ago. He feels like he got himself a small piece of revenge in your honor - I'm sure probably feeling more like himself than he has since you died. And if you go in there now, when he's finally on his way to recovering from the emotional havoc you wreaked on him, you're going to spoil everything."

Molly stopped and let her harsh words sink in. She knew Sherlock could have selective hearing - she needed to make sure that he got the message loud and clear.

"Sherlock, please. Have the cabbie take you to my house. I'll have the kettle on."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"You're right. I'm... I'm coming to you now. It's just..."

"What Sherlock?"

"I know he's alright. But maybe... he doesn't have to see me and I don't even have to be there long. But I know that I'd... [ _don't say feel, do_ not _say feel_ ] be better if I could just see for myself..."

Molly sighed. "Come to my house Sherlock. In the morning we'll get you a proper disguise and I'll take you to see him. And then we're going to a private airfield to get you back on track. You want to be able to talk to John again? You have to take out that bastard's network. Then you can have a proper reunion with the man. Tea 18 times a day, making fun of Anderson, thumbs in the fridge - you can have the whole lot once you finish this work. I know you're strong enough to do this properly; I believe in you Sherlock Holmes."

The stinging sensation behind his eyes was well annoying, and the lump in his throat was even worse. But the pride he felt at Molly's words made it all worth it. It wasn't a selfish pride either - he couldn't really believe how well she had stood up to him. She knew exactly what to say and she was absolutely right. She had grown more than any other person he knew; no longer blushing or stammering or dropping things in his presence. She could now look him in the eye and (apparently) speak to him like an equal. He was so glad she was in his corner.

"Molly Hooper... I'll be there in 15." 

He hung up the phone. Molly knew that was the most sincere thank you he had ever spoken in his life.

And they did stop in to peek at John the next day. His room's window looked on the nurse's station outside and while Molly pretended to be -  _searching for an aunt who was definitely_ definitely _at this hospital and how could you misplace an entire person really what were our taxes paying for? -_  Sherlock watched John. He looked older. Thinner. Tired. 

Content.

He was reading a magazine. A petite brunette nurse went in to adjust his IV and he lit up like a Christmas tree at the opportunity to chat her up while in a hospital bed. He was laughing.

Sherlock knew that there was sadness in his eyes. He could recognise it because he saw it every time he looked at his own reflection. It would be there for the both of them until the day that Sherlock walked back into their flat. His job would be done. John would undoubtedly punch him in the face. Then they would laugh (and maybe just cry), and they would drink tea and watch crap telly and yell at one another and the unfinished business of their still growing friendship would pick up right where it left off.

Until then.

***

Once he was out of the hospital and back home John took what Lestrade had said to heart. Sure, there were days when the black cloud of loss was so thick around him that he didn't know what to do. And there were moments when simply looking at Greg inflated a latent anger he unconciously held towards the man. But he realised that putting his life in danger or simply not caring for himself would be a poor way to repay his fallen best friend - the man who had stepped off a ledge in order to keep them all safe. He would have to try harder.

And he did. He spent the next half year working on being better. He never missed a shift he was scheduled for. He made a point to visit Molly once a week for lunch, his Sunday afternoons belonged Mrs. Hudson and a film of her choice, and every other Thursday night he went out with Lestrade and Stamford and a few other mates. For pints, and football, and trivia and laughter. He even dated again. 

He met this woman, Mary - gorgeous and blonde and smart and brilliant with kids - who he hit it off with immediately. But she was too smart. She knew that there was a small part of John that would never be open to her, that would always be reflective and nostalgic and would belong to a friend whom she would never meet. 

Two glorious months together before she broke it off with him. It wasn't as brutal as he thought it would be. They would still keep in contact and could still go out for dinner as mates, but it couldn't be more than that. She told him that she loved him, but that he wasn't reciprocating the way she needed him too. And that was okay. She said she had a feeling, that even if they couldn't move on at the moment, that they would be able to try again. Maybe a year down the road, maybe two, but that if they were both still unattached and he felt like he was finally able to start again, she'd be waiting for him. 

Mary said she'd make sure she was single.

John loved her for that. It also made him realize that she was right. That they were perfect for each other but that they had met slightly too soon. He still needed to do a bit more healing before he could give her the proper attention she deserved. He was determined that when that time came he'd be unattached as well.

In the meantime...

***


End file.
